


No Special Occasion

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes, Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, The Thing With The Peas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The radiators have been misbehaving since October, so their chairs inch closer to each other and the fireplace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Special Occasion

“Oh, this is what I was talking about at your wedding,”

John looks down at the plate he’s handing Sherlock.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The thing with the peas. It’s good.” He takes a large mouthful and smiles as he chews.

“Sherlock, that’s _asparagus_.”

“Mm.”

“Well. I’m glad you like it. I haven’t made this in ages.”

“To be fair, you weren’t living here for _ages_.”

John grimaces and sits his own plate on his chair while he squats to stoke the fire. Sherlock’s toes press into his hip, threatening to push him off-balance. John raises an eyebrow at him, and he grins.

“Don’t start with cheap tricks with me,” John warns. “I have a sister; I know how to fight dirty.”

Sherlock only grins wider.

“God, stop that, you’re scaring me. Just eat your peas.”

 

It’s no special occasion, but after they’ve eaten, they pour out healthy measures of their best scotch regardless. The radiators have been misbehaving since October, so their chairs inch closer to each other and the fireplace. Sherlock looks soft and radiant in the flickering light of the fire, and John coaxes him into sharing the stories of the cases he worked as he made his way back to London two years ago.

John feels a smile creep over his face as he rests his chin on one hand.

“What - John, what is it?”

He shakes his head, smiles wider.

“Nothing. Just. It’s nice. This. You.”

“You think I’m nice,” Sherlock scoffs.

“I think you’re lovely,” John insists.

Sherlock stares into his glass and rests a foot on the edge of John’s chair.

“Of the two of us,” he points out, “the women of London have determined you to be far more attractive.”

“I don’t give a flying toss what the ladies of London think any more, Sherlock.”

“Ah,” Sherlock responds, and lapses into confused silence.

“Sherlock.”

“Mm.”

The cosy atmosphere makes him brave, or possibly stupid.

“I only really care what _you_ think of me. What - what do you think of me?”

Sherlock looks away, fixing his gaze on something on the mantel for a long time before answering.

“You know what I think of you.”

He swallows hard, and John is entranced by the sight of him, golden light caressing his throat and face. The warmth of the scotch has softened the edge of any nervousness, and he leans forward in his chair. His hand comes to rest on Sherlock’s shin.

“Sherlock.”

“I-”

“This alright?”

Sherlock nods stiffly. John pushes himself further forward, off his chair until his knees are braced against the edge of Sherlock’s chair and his hands grip the arms.

“Look at me,” he urges. “Look at me, tell me what you see. Tell me what you think.” Needing to see into his face, John grips Sherlock’s chin lightly and turns his head. “Tell me what you want.”

There is a long silence as Sherlock drags his eyes to John’s face. It continues as he checks John’s hands and tremulously reaches up to take John’s pulse at his throat.

“You mean it,” he says eventually.

“Yeah.”

“Then what I want is - you, John.”

His eyes flicker between John’s eyes and mouth as he stretches his head up a little. John breathes a disbelieving laugh and bends to meet him. The fire slowly settles into glowing coals.

**Author's Note:**

> a pinch-hit christmas present for holmes-and-vvatson.tumblr.com


End file.
